Page 22 of The Art of Theft
Miss Charlotte drank her black tea with a look of resignation. “Have you considered buying the painting yourself, Your Highness?”
The maharani made a dismissive sound. “The Van Dyck is expected to fetch in excess of twenty thousand pounds. We are not the Maharaja of Jaipur or the Nizam of Hyderabad, Miss Charlotte. We are a small kingdom of relative insignificance and few resources. Even if I were still the queen regent, I would have had trouble coming up with such a sum. And now I am no longer in charge of the treasury, it is completely beyond me to produce the funds necessary to purchase the painting outright.”
“I see,” said Miss Charlotte. “When is this year’s ball expected to take place?”
“In little more than a fortnight.”
Mrs. Watson sucked in a breath. So soon. She thought of yuletide as the twelve days after winter solstice, but this would be several days before.
“Surely you must have some other plans in place for dealing with this situation?” asked Miss Charlotte.
“I did. I didn’t have enough money to buy the painting, but I still had enough to tempt a thief—or so I believed. I made a stop in France on my way to London. But those who I asked to make inquiries all returned the same report: that no thief who could be relied on to do the job properly would take the job in the first place.
“And then, during the Channel crossing, I overheard some people discuss Sherlock Holmes. To be sure, they were more interested in gossiping about his client, a gentleman who was on the verge of being scapegoated for his wife’s murder. At that point, I didn’t have much to lose by consulting this sage. So I did. And now here we are.”
Miss Charlotte nodded, as if satisfied with the maharani’s account. “What else can you tell us, Your Highness, about either the château or the event?”
“Before I met Sherlock Holmes, I wrote down everything I knew, in case I decided to retain his services. I still have that document.” The maharani rose—and abruptly sat down again. “Will the two of you really attempt this? It is orders of magnitude more difficult and dangerous than taking one jewel box out of my hotel safe.”
Her gaze met Mrs. Watson’s. Was there something other than doubt in the maharani’s eyes? Was there a hint of worry, even anxiety?
A bittersweet sensation unfurled in Mrs. Watson’s heart.
It was Miss Charlotte who answered, “We do not promise success. But we will do our utmost.”
The maharani glanced down. The next moment she left the room and returned a minute later with an envelope, which she entrusted to Mrs. Watson. “Shall we discuss your compensation?”
“Let’s discuss it after we have what you want,” said Mrs. Watson, determined not to charge the maharani a single penny even then. “If you have no more information to impart, Your Highness, we must start on our work. There is very little time.”
“Everything I know is in the envelope. Good luck, ladies.”
Miss Charlotte rose. “I thank you for your sentiment, Your Highness. But it would help us more if we knew the reason you are being blackmailed—and the identity of your extortionist.”
“I would like nothing more than to better your chances of success, Miss Holmes,” said the maharani smoothly. “But I do notknow the identity of the person who holds my letters—and the nature of their contents is immaterial to your task.”
Miss Charlotte inclined her head. “If you say so, Your Highness.”
?It wasn’t until they were on the pavement, waiting for her carriage to come around, that Mrs. Watson gulped. “Good heavens, what have I done? And what do we do now?”
To steal an Old Master painting worth twenty thousand pounds at a crowded ball in a château she’d never visited—and in a foreign country, no less. She might as well have signed up to wipe all discolorations from the surface of the moon.
“We will get some help,” said Miss Charlotte decisively. “You can speak to Lord Ingram. I will see whether we can engage Mr. Marbleton. There should be enough time left for me to go to the newspaper offices and put in a small advertisement for the morning editions.”
“Engage... as in hiring his services?”
“He should not devote his time and expertise to our cause solely out of admiration for my sister—I would pay Lord Ingram too, but I would be wasting my time. And then we shall need to either explain to my sister why she must remain behind in London or tell her everything and bring her to France,” continued Miss Charlotte.
Good gracious! Mrs. Watson had forgotten about Miss Olivia. And the poor girl had come only the day before with such happy anticipation of spending all of December with her sisters. “What—what do you propose we do?”
“I leave the decision to you, ma’am. I will abide by it, and I’m sure so will she.”
Mrs. Watson’s head throbbed. “But she will be so very unhappy to be left behind here.”
“Life is imperfect,” said Miss Charlotte, thoroughly unperturbed. “And Livia knows that as well as anyone.”
Livia’s second day in London did not proceed as expected. As soon as she went down for breakfast, she was informed by Mr. Mears that Charlotte and Mrs. Watson had gone out. Charlotte had left her a note, apologizing for their absence and telling Livia not to wait for them for luncheon. But she, like Mr. Mears, gave no reason for that absence except to say that it had to do with a client.
Livia felt rather bereft. She would have dearly loved to be part of what they were doing—or even just to bring up a tea tray at 18 Upper Baker Street. But since that didn’t seem to be in the cards, she spent the day working on her Sherlock Holmes story.
